Directions: |
Directions:Mix flour and shortening together in a bowl until it resembles cornmeal.
Slightly beat egg and milk together in a separate bowl. Add to flour mixture and stir to form a ball of dough. Place onto a floured surface; knead and roll as thin as possible using a floured rolling pin. Let dough stand for 2 hours.
Place chicken into a large pot and add water to just cover. Bring to a boil over high heat and continue to boil until chicken is no longer pink in the center and meat falls off of the bone, about 1 hour. An instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the thigh, near the bone, should read 165 degrees F (74 degrees C).
Remove chicken from the pot; strain broth and return to the pot. Add 2 cups water and bouillon. Remove meat from bones and return to broth. Add celery, carrots, and onion. Bring to a boil; continue to boil for 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, cut dough into strips, approximately 1-inch wide. Tear strips and drop into boiling broth. Continue to boil for 10 minutes more. Season with salt and pepper and serve. |
Personal
Notes: |
Personal
Notes: In the heart of winter, when frost etched delicate patterns on the window panes and the wind whispered secrets of snow, my great grandmother would declare it "chicken and dumplings day." It was a revered occasion, marked not only by the savory aroma wafting from the kitchen but also by the anticipation that swelled in my heart.
There were recipes in her worn cookbook that were winter staples, dependable and comforting like a well-worn quilt. But nestled among them, like a hidden gem, was her legendary chicken and dumplings recipe—a dish that graced her table only once or twice a year. Its rarity was not just due to its exquisite taste but also because of the laborious process that went into crafting it, consuming at least four hours of my great grandmother's time.
On those special days, she would shoo me away from the kitchen with a gentle but firm hand. "Go put on some records," she would say with a smile, her eyes twinkling with a secret knowledge reserved for those who knew the true magic of her culinary prowess. I was her eager helper on most days, but for chicken and dumplings, she insisted on solitude, her kitchen becoming a sanctum where she orchestrated her culinary symphony.
Despite her protests, I couldn't resist stealing glimpses through the kitchen door when her back was turned, my curiosity piqued by the tantalizing scents that danced in the air. I watched as she moved with practiced grace, her hands moving deftly as if guided by some invisible force. There was a rhythm to her movements, a cadence that seemed to echo the beating of my own heart as I waited in hungry anticipation.
I could set a clock by her progress—first, the gentle simmer of the broth, rich with the flavors of herbs and spices; then, the tender chicken, falling apart at the touch of a fork; and finally, the pièce de résistance—the dumplings, fluffy clouds of dough that floated atop the fragrant stew, soaking up its essence with every spoonful.
As the day waned and the sun dipped below the horizon, my stomach would growl in protest, a testament to the delicious torture of waiting. By the time dinner was served, I was hungry enough to cry. My mouth watered at the sight of the steaming bowl placed before me. As I savored each mouthful, I knew that the wait had been worth it. I knew that I was experiencing something truly magical: the taste of my great grandmother's chicken and dumplings on a cold winter's night.
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This recipe for Great Grandma's Chicken and Dumplings is from